


from another angle

by Twice_before_Friday



Series: Altered & Extended - season 1 [9]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Episode: s01e09 Pied-A-Terre, Gen, Nightmares, Panic, Stand Alone, Vomiting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-27
Updated: 2020-05-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:47:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,665
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24405286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twice_before_Friday/pseuds/Twice_before_Friday
Summary: He'sprettysure it's just a dream.That doesn't make it any less terrifying.She's been appearing with increasing frequency lately, begging him to find her, but as time passes and he makes no progress — his memories are still so fractured and muddled that he can't always even tell what's real — she seems to be getting desperate. Angry. What started as a plea the first time she visited him has turned into a merciless demand.
Series: Altered & Extended - season 1 [9]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1557952
Comments: 7
Kudos: 34





	from another angle

**Author's Note:**

> All works in this series are stand alone. You don't need to have read the others to read this one.
> 
> This scene takes place between when Malcolm is dreaming about The Girl in the Box (after she's grabbed the sword from his display case) and when he goes to therapy, only to have Gabrielle tell him that maybe he needs to try being normal.

_It's just a dream. Just my subconscious having a laugh. Playing a joke on me._

\---

He's _pretty_ sure it's just a dream.

That doesn't make it any less terrifying. 

She's been appearing with increasing frequency lately, begging him to find her, but as time passes and he makes no progress — his memories are still so fractured and muddled that he can't always even tell what's real — she seems to be getting desperate. Angry. What started as a plea the first time she visited him has turned into a merciless demand.

And now…

Now she's wielding his 17th century Japanese katana and, from the moment she removed it from his display case, her body language screamed 'intent.' Restraining him, spread-eagle, to his bed, was merely confirmation that he was royally screwed. The fear has been steadily building ever since.

His body goes on the defensive as the blade punctures the mattress beside him, only inches from his body. Adrenal glands kick into high gear, dumping truckloads of adrenaline into his bloodstream, flooding his system with the hormone in preparation for fighting off the threat. His heart begins jackhammering in his chest, slamming painfully against his ribs, while his breathing comes faster and faster as he pulls against his unseen restraints. Unfortunately, the bonds provide no slack, no way to fight against the razor sharp blade as it pierces through the mattress beneath him twice more, narrowly avoiding his body with both thrusts.

He tries to calm his racing heart by telling himself once again, perhaps with slightly less conviction, "It's just a dream." The paralyzing terror and agony as the blade finally reaches its mark and pierces his body, though, are very, very real.

He feels it ripping through him with surprisingly little resistance, considering the sheer amount of flesh, bone, muscle and tissue it has to penetrate. The icy-cold metal severs his spinal cord a fraction of a second before it slices through his heart and lungs. And while it all happens between one breath and the next, he knows his death is secured before the sword even splinters his ribs as it exits his body.

It's excruciating.

And effective. 

He can feel himself fading away — his world fading to a muted grey, tunneling in as his body shuts down — as the blade is jerked back. The wet slide of the metal as it withdraws from his body elicits a shiver that ripples its way over his skin, before the darkness moves in to claim him once and for all.

He shoots up in bed with a scream that echoes off the brick walls, building and growing, assaulting his ears with the deafening roar. It cuts off abruptly as he runs out of air and is left gasping for breath, grasping at his chest as he frantically searches for the wound.

Disoriented and confused, it takes a moment to discover there's nothing there, but even once he does, the adrenaline is still washing through his veins and curdling in his stomach and he can feel the bile burning a path up his throat. Held up as he unclips his restraints and untangles himself from knotted blankets, he nearly doesn't make it to the bathroom in time.

He drops to his knees in front of the toilet just as the first wave of nausea comes to a head, expelling the meager contents of his stomach into the bowl. It doesn't take long before what little food he'd managed to eat throughout the day is gone, replaced by stomach acid as his muscles continue to contract. He heaves until even the acid is expended and he's bringing up nothing at all, and still his stomach convulses painfully. 

He crosses his arms on the toilet seat and pillows his head on his forearm, unwilling to go any further from the bowl than that until he's sure his stomach is finished rebelling. He's not sure how long he stays there, waiting for his stomach to settle, but it's enough time for the tears that had been streaming down his face to dry up, leaving salty tracks in their wake that leave his skin feeling tight and itchy.

Standing is undertaken slowly, cautiously, as his body is left trembling from both the adrenaline crash and the sudden use of his cramped and achy muscles. He holds tightly to the edge of the vanity, knuckles bleaching with the force of his grip, to keep from collapsing to the ground while he waits for his body to steady. 

His stomach gives a warning lurch as he eyes his toothbrush, and he's instinctively aware that any attempt to brush his teeth would send him back to his perch in front of the toilet in a heartbeat. He settles, instead, for a quick swish of mouthwash, ridding himself of the bitter taste of vomit.

He does a double take as he catches sight of himself in the mirror, startled by just how terrible he looks. The dark smudges under his eyes are defined enough to look like bruises, while the glassy sheen that's layered over his crystalline irises leaves him looking desperate and wild. Combined with the tear tracks on his cheeks and the tremor that's still wracking his entire body, even _he_ can't pretend he's fine.

Turning his back to the mirror and leaning against the sink, he drops his head and sucks in a few deep breaths, trying to get himself under control. Somehow, he actually feels worse than he looks. It's been days since he's slept more than a couple hours at a stretch, so to be woken from a deep sleep with the phantom pain of a sword through his chest was truly the last thing he needed. He runs the heel of his palm over his sternum, massaging away the remembrance of a pain he never actually felt.

His sweatpants and t-shirt are soaked through with sweat and have been cooling uncomfortably from the moment he stumbled out of bed. He starts to wonder how much of his shaking is just a shiver at this point. After a quiet moment, he walks the few steps to the shower and cranks the faucet, starting the water flowing far hotter than he probably should.

He strips down and tosses his clothes in a pile on the floor to deal with later. Keeping a hand splayed flat on the cold tile for balance, he steps into the spray of water, flinching from the heat but making no move to turn it down. With how cold he is, it feels like it's burning his skin, which is exactly what he needs — a new sensation to replace the feeling of being impaled.

He's had worse dreams — far worse dreams — but somehow this one just felt so _real_ , and he's finding it difficult to push it from his mind. It seems to have planted itself in his brain, shooting tendrils into his grey matter to latch on and root itself impossibly deeper.

And so, he takes his time washing his hair and soaping up his body, letting the water rinse away some of the anxiety with the suds. The heat of the shower does wonders for his aching muscles, soothing the strain that's been tugging through his body. By the time he shuts off the water nearly 15 minutes later, he feels slightly more human, though he still avoids catching his reflection in the mirror.

He lingers in the bathroom, breathing in the warm steam until it finally dissipates, in no hurry to dry off or leave the comfort of the heated room. Eventually, in a fresh pair of sweats and a hoodie, he makes his way to the living room, knowing full well that trying to get back to sleep is a lost cause. Yoga is out of the question, too; his mind and body are both too unsteady to even bother trying. 

He flips on the TV and rotates through the channels, searching for something that might hold his interest, but he soon discovers that he's too jittery, too distracted, to actually sit still, let alone focus on a plot. He turns off the TV with a sigh and hauls himself off the couch. He's exhausted, but it doesn't matter. A pair of worn runners from his closet is all he needs before he's good to go. 

3:15 in the morning is not the ideal time for a jog, but he knows from past experience that it will help to burn off some of the nervous energy that's leaving him painfully restless.

It works. It just takes a little longer than he expected.

It's nearly 5:30 by the time he gets back. The sky is trading its inky hues for vibrant shades of orange and yellow along the horizon as he struggles up the stairs, his body nearly at the point of collapse.

While physically exhausted, he has a mental clarity that allows him to put the fear of his nightmare behind him, letting him focus on what his subconscious is trying to tell him, how it's manifesting the central question that's been plaguing him since he got back to New York.

He drags himself to the fridge and grabs a bottle of water, slugging back as much as he can while still breathless from his two hour run. Holding the irritating stitch in his side, he lowers himself into one of the barstools and slides his cell phone over. It doesn't take long to scan through his contacts and pull up Dr. Gabrielle Le Deux. 

Though he's reasonably certain about where his subconscious is directing him, he's going to need some insight as to what exactly he's supposed to do with that information. 

He doesn't always ascribe to her school of thought, psychologically speaking, but she's proven herself to be quite intuitive, and has a tendency to make him examine himself and his thoughts from another angle. 

Perhaps she'll have some recommendations for how to deal with this latest dream.


End file.
